


The Hat Brigade

by Zoya1416



Series: THE PATRICIAN'S BABY [10]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Fighting, Flirting, Igors, Showing off for Girls, Snakebite!, Stupid friends, Water Moccasin, fathers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie Vetinari is fifteen and Sammie Vimes is sixteen.  Thinking about girls, showing off for them, taking risks.<br/>Nothing can hurt them--except their friends.</p><p>Good thing Igor stays prepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hat Brigade

**Author's Note:**

> This is the penultimate chapter of 'The Patrician's Baby.' Robbie Vetinari and his best friend Sammie Vimes are almost ready for the real world, and they're indestructible...

PART ONE--YOUNG BLOODS

A noose fell from the roof of the specialty store De Porter Maison, dangling just above the door. The door opened and a satisfied customer appeared wearing his beaver. The looped rope settled over the tall hat, quickly tightened, and was yanked back up over the roof. A boy snatched the hat out of the loop, slammed it on his head, and ran with his companion to the back of the shop. They scrambled down to the safety of the alley behind the Maul. The pair raced to the Cham, and from there slammed down turnwise to Esoteric street, halting to catch their breaths at Upper Broadway.

Sammie and Robbie looked carefully across Broadway for any guards, then pushed through crowds to the Street of Cunning Artificers, and pounded further along it. A minute more found them quickly hidden in a grove of trees in the small park at Twitcher street. 

“How many is that?” Sammie gasped.

“Four more. A beaver, a tricorn, a shako, and a porkpie.” Robbie Vetinari lay on his back, lungs heaving. 

“I call dibs on the beaver.”

“You can't have that! I got it!”

Sammie Vimes stretched out his arm, knocked the beaver off the taller Robbie's head, then bolted for the nearest tree. After a three minute standoff which demonstrated that (a) Sammie could climb higher than Robbie, (b) Robbie could throw rocks more accurately, and c) a top hat, no matter how sturdy, will get dented if it's grabbed several times, the hat was back on Robbie's head and he was scowling at Sammie.

“Look at what you did! It's messed up!”

“Just on that one edge.”

“You can have it now. I'll take the shako. I'm in charge anyway.” Robbie seized the tall military cap with the nearly-white plume.

“No, I am! It was my idea!”

The pair started wrestling, rolling across muddy ground and sticks, until the heavier Robbie had Sammie pinned face down with his arm twisted up. Sammie tapped out.

“Okay, you can have the shako. What did you bring to eat?”

The Patrician's boy climbed another nearby tree and swung down a pillow-case-wrapped bundle.  
“I've got two steaks, a chicken, a link of sausages, a ham, and a loaf of bread. What did you get?”

“What did you do, raid Wuffle's lunch again?”

Robbie swore quickly and swiped at Sammie again, who just laughed.

Sammie climbed up to his own tree and handed down a basket of peaches, a jar of plum preserves, a large round of cheese, sesame rolls, chocolates filched from his mother, and a silvery hip flask.

Robbie gaped. “I thought your Dad said he'd beat you raw if he caught you drinking again!”

“It's lemonade. But you don't have to tell the guys.”

They threw themselves down on a patch of softer grass under the warm summer sun and began eating. Presently John and Dane Boggis showed up with their own meals and plunder. John smugly pulled out a Tyrolean, and Dane a bowler. “We got the one with the feather at the Skunk Club, and the bowler from Horrid's.

“You did what?” shouted Robbie. “They let you in at the Skunk Club? Did you see Dixie “Va Va” Voom?”

“Nah,” said Dane, when his older brother started to say yes, “we waited until a guy came out who was walking sideways, and tripped him. And we both went into Horrid's, and John slipped the bowler into a bag while I covered for him.”

“That makes you an unlicensed Thief. Won't your Guild get mad?”

“Nah, we're part-time apprentices. Mom only put us in the Assassins' so we could get 'kultcher.'”

Robbie was throwing grass spears at Dane. “That, or scope out the houses you want to rob.”

Dane shoved him. “Shut up, stupid, it's not like that. Everybody has insurance.”

Robbie said, “What about Ankla and Durban?”

“They said they're going to meet us at Hide Park.”

“That's cheating!" said John. “The girls will see them first.”

The group of Assassins' Guild School boys had stayed loosely affiliated since their toddler days. They were now the Hat Brigade, and were devoted to plundering hats to promenade in Hide Park. Promenade was too stately a term for a transit which involved running up to the tops of hills and leaping down them, balancing on the thin walls surrounding formal gardens, racing each other to the next landmark, and throwing punches at each other's headgear. Each one was responsible for his own hat, and for obtaining another when one was destroyed. They'd been doing this for two weeks and no parents had found out yet.

All this display was in aid of catching the attention of certain people, especially the girls they'd met in preschool but now saw only on holidays. Lady Elizabeth Rodley and Lady Zosima Rodley had recently reclaimed their birth names, and refused to respond to “Lizzy and Zizzy,” the former and now despised nicknames. Ankla and Durban Downey were slow learners in this, and had suffered. The girls were not talking to them. More sociable were Lacy Von Lipwig-Dearheart, and Wilhelmina “Willie” and Splenda de Worde.

The girls, for their part, dressed demurely for an afternoon's walk by their nannies, parents, and schools, made up for this by unbuttoning blouses as far as they dared, and hiking up their skirts under their belts.

“Let's get them!” yelled Sammie, and they were off. 

Ankla and Durban were occupying a pair of round boulders at the park's entrance, and jeered as the others pelted up.

“Beat you, Robbie!” jeered Ankla. “And that's a stupid hat.” Robbie leaped up and caught a small bush. His feet scrabbled below him, and the shako tipped back dangerously. He grabbed it with the left hand, jammed it on tighter, and swung himself up next to Ankla before he could jump back. He knocked off Ankla's fedora, and the two brothers tackled him. He was bigger than either of them, but was bashed under their combined assault. The shako tumbled over the side.

“You guys are idiots!” a high voice called, and Robbie looked down to see Lacy Von Lipwig-Dearheart frowning at him. She'd picked up his shako and was frowning at it. Lacy was wearing a boater, and he leaped down to her, only slightly twisting his ankle.

“Ow! Hi Lacy, great hat. Where did you get it?” He noticed her pretty legs, bare from her knees down. They were pale and smooth, with nice curves in the calves, and nice ankles with white socks and black shoes.

“My mother bought it for me. Unlike you, I feel no urge to become a petty thief.” She brushed dirt off the ostrich plume. “ Which honorable soldier did you steal this from?”

“Don't know. He was coming out of Rosie's and hadn't put it back on yet.”

She screwed up her face. “You went to Rosie the Seamstress? Get away from me.” She lifted her nose and would have marched away, but he touched her arm.

“It wasn't like that. We didn't go in. Her troll splatter wouldn't have let us. But Sammie and I just wanted to watch and see who was going in. We hid down the street.” He was in front of her, walking backwards to face her.

“Whore Street? In the Shades? You're still jerks.” She was still in a snit, trying to walk away, but he was faster and kept talking.

“Mrs. Palm said she wants to name it 'Street of Negotiable Affections.' But Dad won't let her. Ow!" He stumbled over another couple and the man cuffed him.

They were ahead of the other boys. Sammie was circling Lady Elizabeth and Willie, talking eagerly with his hands, the top hat bobbing, while John and Dane had challenged Ankla and Durban to races. The other girls, Lady Zosima and Splenda, chatted to each other, comparing dresses, while too obviously ignoring the races.

“It's still icky.” Then Lacy paused. “Did you—see anybody you knew?”

Robbie smirked. He'd been saving this. “Yes. I saw Willie and Splenda's mother.”

It had all the effect he'd hoped for.

Lacy stopped and looked up at him. Her boater started to tip off and he grabbed it.  
“What! A woman going to a seamstress! That can't be!”

He waited for a bit, making the most of her shocked expression.  
“She said she was on an assignment. Interviewing Mrs. Palm.”

At the empty duckpond they walked out on a long pier. The fully stocked duckpond had been another brainstorm of B.S. Johnson, who apparently didn't realize that hungry citizens appreciated dinner handed to them for the price of a few breadcrumbs. 

They leaned over the rail, watching for any fish. The pond was cleaner than the Ankh, but it was still a brave fisherman who'd eat anything from it.

“So—Miss Cripslock went to talk to Mrs. Palm.” Lacy was still turning this over. “Huh. I wondered what she said.”

Robbie didn't care what Mrs. Palm had said. He just wished Otto Chriek had been there to take pictures. He'd been imagining it for days. The Assassins' guild did expect their students to learn culture, and had once taken them to the Royal Art Museum for an exhibition of tribal weapons of Howandaland. The assegai, trumbash, throwing knives, and executioner's swords were amazing, and he would have looked longer, but Sammie had sneaked him away to another room. “Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze” was the most viewed painting in the whole museum, although usually looked at casually from the corner of the eye by men strolling by. The patrons didn't typically stop and gawk.

“Gods!” said Robbie. “It shows their—titties and everything.”

“Yeah, wow, and that one—you can see her butt crack." Sammie snickered.

They'd been lucky enough to tear themselves away fast enough to sneak back to the school tour group, although they had to shove other museum patrons to catch up. Robbie had been very distracted and quiet on the walk back to the Guild, committing the entire painting to memory. It had provided inspiration for his idle hours for days now.

Sammie had begged Miss Cripslock to tell him what Mrs. Palm's looked like. But she just smiled at them, and said, “I wouldn't say anything else, Sammie, or I'm going to quote you. You know what your father would think.”

Robbie still had to rabbit punch Sammie to get him to shut up. Sammie turned around and grabbed his hair, while Miss Cripslock grinned. She'd told them to quit it and be gentlemen enough to escort her out of the Shades.

Lacy was leaning far out over the pier's railing, holding her boater in one hand and pointing with the other. Its blue ribbons streamed back over her gleaming black curls. “Look, there are turtles!”

A log full of red-eared sliders were sunning themselves, each one leaning on top of the one in front. Hearing their noise, a couple slipped off the log and sank, swimming toward the pier. Lacy bent over even further to watch them, and started to topple. Her blue skirt with its tiny white polka dots flipped up, showing white lacy petticoats and darling thighs. Robbie's mouth dried up when he saw them, but his reflexes were fast. He was in time to grab her. He pulled her back over the rail, and she flung her arms around him. 

“Oh gosh! Thank you!” Lacy looked up at him, and smiled. The girl was warm in his arms, and he quickly bent down and kissed her. She'd eaten peaches for lunch and he could smell them. It might have lasted longer if Durban Downey hadn't rushed up to them.

“Yah! Boo, Lacy, here's a snake!”

Durban flipped a black snake onto Lacy's back. She screamed.

Robbie threw the snake off, and it struck him on the arm just above the elbow. The pain felt like a hammer strike. He fell to his knees and then to his back. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt, and his arm started swelling and turning red.

Lacy hit Durban and screamed, and Durban backed away from her. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know it was that bad.”

The Hat Brigade and the girls ran up. Sammie knelt down next to him. John and Dane swarmed into Durban, swinging hard. Ankla held off, unconsciously crushing his fedora, shocked at what his brother had done.

“We have to get him to the Hospital!” yelled Willie de Worde.

“It's too far. We have to get him to the Watch House! Carry him!” exclaimed Sammie.

Sammie put his injured arm on his chest, and carefully picked him up by that shoulder.  
“Shit, piss, damn—sorry.” 

John and Dane Boggis picked up his legs. Some one else, Willie, maybe—she was a strong girl—picked up the shoulder of the uninjured arm, and they started off, weaving, jouncing him horribly. 

The other girls screamed for help, but Lacy ran up to a man with a goat cart who was giving his children a ride.

“Please, come help carry my friend. He's really hurt bad.”

The startled man, a cattle market worker by the smell, lifted his children down to his wife, and scooped him up. He had to move the injured arm, and that was all Robbie knew for some time.

Robbie woke up, chilled and shivering. His father held his good hand, and he couldn't feel the other. Things didn't hurt so much now.

Before he said a word, his father said, “Shh, it will be well. You are in the Watch House surgery. Igor has given you something for pain.”

“Igor? He didn't have to take my arm off, did he?” he said weakly.

“No, hush. The skin is very swollen and he has put a poultice on it. He put ice on top of that. Igor from the Lady Sibyl is here now with your anti-venom.” 

A large needle was plunged into his thigh, and he yelled. Someone held his legs so he didn't jump, and his father said again, “you must be still. There are more injections.”

“Will they hurt?” 

“Yes. But hold my hand tight.” His father would not lie to him, and that was a comfort. Two more injections were left, and the second one was very bad, because it was into the area of the bite itself. When he work up again, he was in his own bed. His father was there, next to him, leaning back in a chair with his eyes closed, still holding his hand.

After three days, the swelling in his arm was down enough so that he could move it. Igor had had to split the skin, but kept constant poultices on it. "The thpethial green mold poultithe keepth it from getting theptic with puth." It worked. The wound kept pink and healthy, but he could not get out of bed for a week.

Sammie came to visit him and sneaked in a postcard from the Art Museum of the Three Large Pink Women. John and Dane came by and brought him a new shako, red with a blue band around the crown and two red ostrich plumes. 

“It's all the way from Borogravia. We didn't steal it, either. We found it at the pawnbroker's next to the shonky shop.”

Dane leaned close to him and whispered, “and we got you some shonkys, too. In case you and Lacy, you know...”

If he been strong enough to bash their heads, he would have. Lacy was a pure girl, not to be associated with...

She did come visit him though. “You were so brave! You got that horrible thing off me—you saved me.” She scooted the visitor chair up right next to his bed and held his good hand in her lap, stroking it, pressing it. Her soft legs were warm, and she smelled good. His father looked in a few minutes later, and there was a tiny nod. They stayed there quietly for a long time. When she got up to leave, he pulled her down for another kiss.

PART TWO--AFTERMATHS

Lord Vetinari waited until Lord Downey had blustered out both his concern for Robbie and his insistence that his heir, Durban, had not been malicious in throwing the water moccasin. They were sitting in the Oblong Office, which meant that Vetinari's chair was quite comfortable, and his visitor's was not. The sun drilled its heat through the open window.

“Of course not, my lord. How could your son be expected to remember the poisonous snakes of the Disc? It was all the way back in the first form.” 

Lord Downey started to nod as Vetinari continued, “and it's merely mentioned in the yearly exams, and in the courses on preparing toxins, and there are only two specimens in the Guild zoo, with well written signs about venomous snakes native to Ankh Morpork. A boy can hardly be expected to remember such an exotic fact.” Vetinari conveyed by his expression his sorrow that the child of such a distinguished man should be a dullard.

Downey flushed with anger, which added to his present flushing with heat.“Look here, Havelock. What do you want?”

“What would you want in my place? Besides my removal as Patrician, of course.” His icy blue eyes said, 'and don't deny it.'

The head of the Assassins Guild blustered again, “well, if you think I'm going to resign over this, you're wrong. It's a private matter.”

“Yes, of course, so private that it's merely made the front page of the Times twice this week, being eclipsed only by the earthquake in Klatch which left 5,000 dead, the plague of rogue elephant killings in Omnia—now thirty men, I understand, and the leaf rust of the Sto Plains cabbage fields which threatens famine this winter if it cannot be controlled.” Lord Vetinari's expression had not changed from its normally chilly mien. 

Lord Downey was silent a moment. “I have had him beaten, of course.”

“Capital, capital. A good beating always improves one's feelings. No, I wasn't thinking about having him arrested for attempted murder”—

“It's absurd to think it was murderous! Durban was jealous when he saw the von Lipwig girl flirting with Robert. What is it that you want me to do?”

Lord Vetinari appeared to think this over, hands steepled in front of his thin lips.

“A reciprocal exchange is hardly fair. I wouldn't want Durban to lose the use of his arm.” 

Downey shuddered. “He isn't going to lose his arm, surely! I thought you had him treated as soon as possible.” The Guild leader tried sitting up straighter on his chair to see whether it was more comfortable. It wasn't.

“The doctors and Igors assure me he will not lose his arm. How much loss of function there will be is still unknown.”

Downey was distracted. “Igor has been treating him? I didn't know you had to depend on the Watch House for medical care.” His voice said now that if Robbie did lose his arm it was all that could be expected.

“Not the Watch House Igor, although he was superlative in first aid. He gets plenty of experience with knife and blade wounds. He prevented Robbie's wound from becoming septic by his quick work. It was Igor from the Lady Sybil who brought the anti-venom—seven quite painful injections of anti-venom—and the other Igors there who attended him constantly. And the physicians were not only of our city, but a specialist from Genua. He is confident that physical therapy will restore at least most movement, if not replace the necrotic tissues.” Lord Vetinari waited again. He had always found it best to let men betray themselves.

“I will certainly pay for his medical care.”

“Nonsense. Of course the Lady Sibyl volunteered all its resources as well, but that's not necessary...”

“A large donation to the Lady Sibyl, then.”

“...and the Watch House provided its Igor free of charge, as well...”

“Yes, yes, of course, a donation to the Watch House.”

“But monetary payments, one feels, do not address the central question of how Durban may make his own restitution. One could not, of course, expect him to clean the floors or privies of the Lady Sibyl or the Watch House.”

“Are you insane? That's unthinkable!”

“I am glad you agree with me. My aunt has always given Robbie such chores when she visits him, but Durban is not suited to such. I did wonder, however, whether Sir Harry King might need assistance.”

“Piss Harry?”

“Yes, or of course the Cattlemen's Guild, the Dockworkers, and the mail coach stables are always in need of labor.” Lord Vetinari gave a short cough.

Lord Downey sat back. That position wasn't comfortable, either.

“You aren't going to be satisfied until my son is up to his neck in muck, are you? You're determined to shame him.”

There was an expectant silence.

“Oh, all right then! I'll see about sending him to clean at the Lady Sibyl.” He flung himself out of the chair and was at the door when the Patrician said, “Yes, and it will be easy for him to carry your donation to them, won't it?”

Downey left. Vetinari waited for a few seconds, but did not hear any thumps on the wall.

“You may come in now.”

Robbie slipped in through Drumknott's office, his left arm still in a sling. His face still had the dark circles of pain he'd had for four weeks, but he was smiling. “You're really going to make Durban clean floors?” He flopped down in the comfortable chair beside his father's desk. Visitors to the office always looked at that chair longingly, but it was only offered to Mrs. Palm of the Seamstresses Guild, Queen Molly of the Beggars, or any other woman of their standing. 

“And clean bedpans, and privies as well. My instructions to the housekeeper were explicit.” Lord Vetinari gave a smug smile. It would have astounded anyone outside the Oblong Office, but he was not devoid of expression. He never had much, of course, but with Robbie he'd smiled and even laughed. He had a deep love, and also much affection, for the child he'd acquired so unexpectedly.

“Did you meet with Downey before, then?” 

“No, I did not meet with LORD Downey previously.” A small frown told Robbie that vindictiveness did not mean relaxation of standards.

Robbie said thoughtfully, “You made him choose the Lady Sibyl. You gave him all those terrible ideas—when you said that Durban could clean the docks, I laughed.”

“I heard you.”

Robbie changed his position, long legs now sweeping over the arms of the chair, swinging up and down restlessly.

“I don't want to go to the Assassins' school this year.”

“Your injury will not interfere in the slightest with your studies.”

Now Robbie was the one flushing. “Yes, sir, but I was already planning not to go back. I was going to tell you.” He went on hurriedly, as his father's face had now set in a frown.  
“It's not because of Durban. Everyone knows he's an idiot. I want to be a doctor. I've never wanted to be an Assassin. I know it's a good school where everyone goes, but I never intended to Take Black. I talked to the Igors a lot, and I want to study with them, and with Dr. Lawn, and”—the face had not changed expression, but the eyelids had slightly narrowed. He rushed on. “Not just with them, but only til I'm seventeen. I want to go to Genua. Like the specialist who came.”

“You do not think you could conclude your schooling before you choose your career?”

“No sir, excuse me sir, but I don't think people would want an Assassin as their doctor.”

“Something in that, certainly.” There was silence for a space. 

Robbie tried to read his father's face. He knew it better than anyone else, but Dad could be damn opaque so quickly. Sometimes he envied Sammie Vimes, although Sammie had come in for many times more beatings and cuffings than he had. Sammie's Dad had also shown pride in him, laughed with him, wrestled affectionately with him, told him off sternly for bothering the cook or the staff—and these were just the times Robbie had seen himself. 

Sammie was far more in awe of his mother than he was of his father. Ramkins had lead armies for five hundred years, and she could glare with the fury of a hundred generals behind her. Plus, she didn't hesitate at all to have Sammie clean the swamp dragon kennels, nor have him help Sammie if he'd also gotten in trouble.

“I will write your Aunt Bobbi. She has friends in Genua. I will also write to colleges of medicine there.”

“Thank you, sir!” He jumped out of the chair, hit his injured arm on the desk, said “Ow,” and held out his hand to shake his father's.

“Thank you! You won't be sorry. I'll come back here after two years. Sammie and I have a lot of plans for the city. He isn't going to Take Black, either.”

“Indeed?” Vetinari was not surprised in the least. Vimes had choked on the idea of the Assassins' Guild School before Sammie was even born, yielding only reluctantly to Sibyl, and there was no possible way he'd let his son become an Assassin. “What will he do? Do you know?”

“Yes, he's going to apprentice to Mr. Slant and”—

Vetinari said with rare astonishment, “Sammie wants to be a lawyer?” This was an occupation second only to Assassin in his father's dislike. 

“Yes, but not really, sir. He wants to train in the law so he can learn how to help people get along without suing each other. A meditator, he said.”

“Mediator. We have no mediators in Ankh Morpork.”

“Except you, sir. That's what Sammie said. He's seen you—watched you—have all the Guilds come in arguing, and by the time they're through, everyone is happy.”

“Truly? He thinks people are happy after they've seen me?” Now there was a quirk to the lips and a tiny chuckle. Vetinari stood and stretched his bad leg, reached for his cane. 

“No, not happy, but you make everybody get along. Sir, if you could let him help you—and listen, like Drumknott does—he would really be grateful. He doesn't want to make his Dad mad, though.” Robbie looked worriedly at his father. He knew how much trouble he and Sammie had gotten into over the years. Sammie was often the leader, being a year older.

“I will think about it. Dinner is ready now.”

Robbie hurried to the door of their apartments, opened it for his father, and stepped quickly through. Havelock Vetinari considered the twin propositions set before him. Send his child away to Genua—he'd thought he had two more years before such decisions needed to be made. Let Robbie study with Igors for a year—the upper crust would be uproarious about this, but he'd seen their expertise in saving Robbie's arm. Take Sam Vimes' child for some type of apprentice, as well as allowing him time for legal studies—what an idea. He doubted that Vimes had any notion of what was in his child's mind, no more than he had of Robbie's until a few minutes ago. The Patricianship could not be inherited, but he'd allowed Robbie to watch him many times, as he had tonight. Sammie had no desire to become Patrician, according to Robbie, but Sam Vimes might not know that. 

He hung up his robe of office on a hook in his bedroom, took off his suit coat, and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves to the elbow before following Robbie to the table.  
“Mr. Vimes will go spare,” he murmured. It was going to be very amusing.


End file.
